by Orly Konig
“Oh.”
Emma dunks the sponge in the water, then swipes it across the saddle soap bar. She scrubs at a spot of dried sweat on the browband. She knows what goes on at those parties. Not that she’s ever been to one, but she’s heard stories. Jilli herself had bragged after the last one about how hungover she was.
That’s not Emma’s idea of fun. Then again, neither is being left behind. She has enough of that in her life. “Hey, how about taking me with? It would be fun. We’ve never done that together.”
Jillian turns in an are-you-crazy slow motion. “I dunno. I don’t think you’ll fit in. You’ll hate it.”
“Come on. It won’t be the same celebrating our birthdays apart. At least this way we can still be together. We don’t always have to do the same things. I’m happy doing whatever you want.” She hates the begging sound but the thought of spending her birthday alone is even worse.
“I dunno. You don’t know these guys.”
“So introduce me.”
Jillian snaps her gum. “Okay, I guess. Tomorrow night. There’s a party at Drew’s house. He’s hot. And I think he’s into me. Jory is driving. You can come.”
Emma isn’t sure if the rolling in her stomach is excitement or dread. She isn’t worried about getting permission or negotiating a curfew. Her father isn’t due to return from his trip to Seattle until Sunday.
What she is worried about is fitting in. She knows Jory from school, not that he ever speaks to her or anything. Of course she knows Drew and she’ll admit that he’s super cute.
But more than fitting in, she’s worried about how strained her relationship with Jilli is becoming.
Last week when she’d stayed over, it had been like old times. They’d practiced different ways of braiding their hair, looking for the perfect fit under their hunt caps. And they’d talked until 1 A.M.
Deep down, Emma knew they wouldn’t stay the naïve H&H sisters forever. Horses wouldn’t always be the center of their world. Boys were inching up the interest tree. Even with the changes, though, she’d sort of assumed they’d still be H&H sisters. Older, more mature, but together.
Emma watches Jilli put the bridle back together and wonders if joining Jilli at these parties will help re-cement their friendship or be the final nail that splits them apart.
* * *
She’s been jittery most of the day, rehearsing her excuse to get out of tonight’s party, but she knows she’ll still go. If she backs out, Jilli will never include her in anything again. This is her one chance to show she’s as grown up as Jillian.
She sneaks a look at Jilli, who’s posing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Her T-shirt is snugger than any Emma has seen her wear so far, with a deep V that exposes the edges of a purple polka-dot bra. Her cutoff shorts have recently undergone renovation and are showing as much leg as a modest swimsuit. It isn’t that she’s surprised at Jilli’s choice, but she can’t deny the prickle of unease at what that choice means for the evening.
Emma pulls the rounded neck of her T-shirt up to her collarbone.
Jillian flicks her a look. “At least put some makeup on.”
“I’m not allowed. You know that.”
Jillian makes a show of searching the room. “Is he here? Is he invisible?”
When Emma doesn’t take the bait, she adds, “He’s not going to know and I’m not taking my grandmother to a party. Loosen up.”
Someone honks and Jillian lobs a tube of gloss at Emma with a sharp directive to move faster. Emma swipes on a coat of gloss, then wipes most of it off.
She follows Jillian down the stairs and out the door, ears tuned for a “stop right there.” But no one stops them and before she can quadruple-guess her decision, she’s mashed into the backseat between two boys who acknowledge her by making an extra two inches for her to fit in.
They sway into one another for the next thirty minutes as Jory negotiates the turns and stops. Music blares, making it hard to hear the discussion, although no one seems to be directing anything at Emma anyway.
She’s the last out of the car and the last into the house. Whatever delusions she had about “hanging” with Jilli are scattered faster than bowling pins in the path of a barreling marble ball. She follows the general path Jilli took, weaving through groups of people who don’t move to let her pass. By the time she reaches the kitchen, the prickle of unease is drowning in sweat.
“Looking for a drink?” Someone pushes a blue plastic cup into her hands.
“Thanks,” she mumbles and takes a gulp. Her eyes and throat burn as the liquid flames a path to her stomach.
Whoever handed her the drink has already melted into the crowd. The laughter surrounding her could be at her expense or just part of the party. She’s not sure, although she suspects at least some of it is at her expense. She pours the clear liquid into the sink and fills the cup with water.
An hour later, the noise hits a level that she’s pretty confident will have police arriving any minute.
From her perch on the kitchen counter she has a decent view of the couples and tribes forming and splitting. A few people chat with her but only for the time it takes to grab a drink from one of the coolers on the counter next to her.
There’s absolutely no question that she’s a square peg. Jilli was right, she doesn’t fit in and she never will. She looks around, hoping to find Jory and beg a ride home.
“You look like you’re planning an escape.” Drew steps into her line of sight.
She feels the heat prick her cheeks. He’s even better-looking in jeans and a dark gray T-shirt that hugs muscles she hadn’t noticed before. “It’s a fun party.”
He laughs and she feels the heat slither down her spine. In one graceful move he’s sitting on the counter, close enough that their knees knock hello. She squeezes her thighs together, then silently scolds herself for being uptight. How many times will she have the opportunity to knock knees with Drew? She releases the cramp-inducing hold on her thighs.
“I’m glad you’re here. It was a nice surprise finding you in my kitchen.”
Two girls saunter over under the pretense of getting beers, interrupting him. A redhead Emma doesn’t recognize leans against Drew’s leg and flips her long hair. He introduces them to Emma, not that either notices she’s there.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Drew turns back to Emma, earning her a glare from the redhead, who model-walks away with a last look to make sure Drew noticed. He shakes his head. “Don’t pay attention to her. I think this is the first time we’ve seen each other outside of horse shows. I like it.”
Emma likes his smile and the sound of his voice, the accent on like.
“Me too.” She pulls her shoulders back, wishing she’d listened to Jilli and worn a more flattering T-shirt.
Drew, it turns out, is as funny as he is cute and as sweet as he is talented and she sends a thanks that Jory was nowhere to be found.
While the noise escalates around them, they talk horses and English Lit, the favorite subject for both of them. It’s not until the crowd starts to thin and her butt tingles that she realizes how late it is.
“Oh crap, I need to find Jilli. Hopefully Jory hasn’t left without us.”
“Jory’s right there.” Drew points at a cluster of guys in the family room. One of them speaks and Jory laughs, tipping sideways and sloshing beer on himself. “Looks like he’s had a couple too many. You’re not going home with him.”
“But he’s my ride.”
“Not anymore. I’ll drive you.” He puts his arm around her shoulder.
“Hey, what’s happening here?” Jillian’s voice slices through the private moment. She wobbles toward them and nudges Drew’s knees to the side, just enough to squeeze between his legs and provide a scenic overlook to her cleavage.
“We were just talking about you.”
Emma can’t help noticing that his eyes drop to the cleavage.
“I felt it.” Jillian gives a little shimmy that makes her
boobs jiggle and causes Drew’s left knee to bump into Emma’s right knee. He puts his hand on her knee and squeezes, then winks when she looks up. Jillian catches the exchange and bumps Drew’s knee until he refocuses on her. “What were you talking about?” She puckers her lips around the mouth of the bottle.
Emma forces her eyes away, like when she’d seen the dying fox on the side of the road.
“I was telling Emma that I’ll drive her home since Jory seems to be a crap choice for a designated driver.”
“What about me?” The pout deepens.
“You too if you need a ride. But I assumed Chris had you covered, considering what I saw in the bathroom earlier.”
Emma catches a flash of uncertainty in Jillian’s expression before her friend lets out a throaty pretend laugh and chugs the rest of the beer.
“Jealous are we?” The words slur together and she tips forward, her boobs brushing Drew’s arm. “Oops.” She giggles but doesn’t move.
“Jilli, you’re drunk.” Emma’s surprised at her revulsion.
“Oh, hi, Grandma. I didn’t know you were coming. Well, duh, it’s a party.”
Emma swallows the bitter bile clawing up her throat. The girl in front of her, wedged between a guy’s knees and blatantly offering herself, is a stranger. No wonder she hasn’t been welcome at these parties. She should never have come.
She hops off the counter and grasps Jilli’s upper arm. “Come on, we’re going home.”
Jillian yanks her arm away, the force knocking her off-balance and into Drew. Emma sees the hesitation on his face, his Adam’s apple scooting up, then falling, his eyes locking on Jilli’s gyrating mounds. Jillian sees the hesitation as well. “There’s still beer and I’m not done.” She wraps her lips around the opening of the bottle, eyes locked on Drew.
Emma turns away, suddenly feeling sick and all she’s had to drink is water. She has to get out of here.
“Emma, wait…” Drew calls.
“Let her go. Wanna do ta-fuck-ya-shots with me? I have the yummiest spot for the salt.”
Emma lurches for the front door. She’ll walk if she has to. She’ll call a taxi from the first gas station. Anything is better than being here.
“Emma, wait. I’m taking you both home.” Drew grabs her hand and leads the way to his car. Jillian does a jog-walk to catch up to them, yelling “Slow down,” which only makes Drew stride faster.
He unlocks the passenger side and opens the door. She can hear Jilli wheezing a few steps behind. A wave of annoyance propels her forward until she’s in the front seat, where she knows Jillian wants to be. Not this time.
“Hey, that’s my…” Jilli doubles over, vomit arcing to an inch from Drew’s feet.
“Damn, Jillian.” He jumps to the side and closes the car door, securing Emma in the coveted passenger seat.
Jillian attempts a glare at her but the alcohol makes her wobble, reducing the effectiveness of the threat. If it had been anyone other than Jilli, Emma would have found it comical.
It wasn’t that long ago that they’d watched Jilli’s mom stumble out of a car, too drunk to walk the straight path to the front door. Jilli had apologized to Emma for having to witness that and swore she’d never end up like her mom. Emma watches Jilli in the side mirror as Drew pulls the car out of the driveway.
Except for a few moans that turn to snores in the backseat, the only sound during the rest of the drive is the rumble of the engine.
Maybe it’s not a choice. Maybe we become what our parents are. It’s not a thought that comforts Emma. Who would she become? Her sickly mom, who died young, or her cold, ambitious dad, who prefers his work to his family?
Neither one. She’ll make sure of that.
Drew squeezes her left hand. A tingle races up her arm. She’s glad she came to the party but she also knows she’ll never go again.
33
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” I shake Thomas Adler’s hand. I’d called him from the car on my way to his office, an impulsive act fueled by forest spirits and the need to prove my independence.
“I’m always happy to fit you in. Although I admit, I was surprised to hear you were still in town.”
“Something came up.”
“Not about the condo I hope?”
“No, the sale is going through. The buyer is anxious to get in.”
“So what brings you to my door with singed hair?”
“I want to hire you.”
“But I’m already working for you.”
“Separate from my father’s things. This is for me, personally.”
He eases back in his chair and studies me, the fingers of his right hand rolling a pen along a yellow legal pad, then grins. “The reason for the singed hair. Let’s hear it.”
“I want to invest the money from the sale of the condo and practice in the therapeutic riding program at Jumping Frog Farm. The main donor has backed out and without that money, Rena will have to shut it down. I can’t let that happen.” My foot jitters faster with each word.
His hand flattens, quieting the gentle rolling sound of the pen. His expression fades like a slide show from friendly to curious to reserved. “May I ask why?”
I channel the Chicago Emma, the one who sits in executive board meetings and doesn’t take no for an answer. “A lot of people rely on that program. I’ve always loved it, even before…” I complete the thought in my head.
Thomas nods, his mouth pulling into a contemplative line.
Under his gaze, new Emma begins to waver. “I don’t need the money from the condo or practice. I don’t want that money. It needs to go to something positive. My father may have paid for lessons but he never supported my passion. That was really all I ever wanted. He can finally give me that.”
Thomas leans forward as though to say something, but instead he takes a deep breath and closes his fingers around the pen.
“Can you draw up the papers for me to sign before I leave? I’m on a flight Saturday afternoon. Please. I realize it’s a rush job, I’ll pay whatever fees you want.” The words trip over one another.
Just when I’m ready to reach across the desk and shake an answer out of him, he nods. “Of course.”
Air whooshes through me. “Thank you.”
But there’s something in his expression that dams the release of adrenaline.
“There’s a ‘but’?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Well, yes. It’s not a ‘but,’ I can pull those documents together. But there is something you need to know.”
I’m not going to like this. My stomach clenches tighter.
“The funding for the therapeutic program has been coming from an anonymous account that your father established after your mom died.”
I stare through the distance between us, through the years of arguments over my expensive hobby, through the years of silence.
“That’s ridiculous.”
His eyebrows raise in a maybe-but-it’s-the-truth.
“Why would he do that? And why anonymous?”
“I’m not sure it’s my place to say more.”
“Then whose place is it? My father sure as hell can’t. He never gave a shit about the horses. Or what was important to me. Now I’m supposed to take your word that he had a soft spot after all?” Anger slams into realization. The dark gray linen notebook. The hours he’d spent at the stable drawing the horses and the people of the therapeutic riding program.
“Thomas, did you know that my father used to draw?”
Thomas tilts his head, pointing with his chin at a framed picture to my left. It’s a graphite drawing of a young lady standing by the beach, hair and dress billowing in the breeze.
“He did that?” My mouth locks in an awed O.
“Yes. That’s my sister. Well, inspired by my sister. She never went to the beach. Although it was always her dream.”
I turn to look at him but he’s far away, on that beach with his sister. “Is she one of his patients?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. She had cancer. It was a hard time but your father was a godsend during that period. He gave her that drawing a few months before she passed.”
I turn back to the drawing. What an emotionally generous move. “I found sketch pads in his things. Most were of people, one of horses.”
“He explained to me once that he drew what he saw in people, not what they actually looked like. Drawing horses was a more recent passion.”
“Do you know if he gave other drawings away?” I make a mental note to look around the stable office again for any of his drawings.
Thomas shakes his head. “He was very private about his drawings. Said they were his personal therapy.”
“Then why this one?” I turn back to the picture of Thomas’s sister.
“Your father was a client here since before I became a lawyer. He worked with my father. Then when Dad retired, I took over. Angela was first diagnosed when she was seventeen. Your father helped my parents through that initial blow. When the cancer came back, she started seeing your father as well. He knew her since she was a little girl. He was more of a family friend than the family psychiatrist.”
The idea of my father being that close to another family sends my emotions to a rolling boil. I have to leave before I spill over. I push to my feet. “I need to go. Can you please prepare the documents?”
He startles at the abrupt change in my manner and the sharp move. “Of course. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
“You didn’t. It’s all his doing.” I walk to the door and reach for the knob.
“Emma, do you want your participation to be anonymous?”
The word “yes” rolls out of my brain but detours before coming out of my mouth. “No,” I hear myself say instead. I never hid my love for the stable. I’m not my father and I no longer need to hide in the shadow he created for me.
A vision of Rena in the hospital bed stops me from turning the doorknob. “Can you include a caveat that as the primary backer, changes won’t be made to the program without my approval?”